Since 2009, soirées for the young and well-heeled have taken place in a hidden lounge known as the Wooly, situated at the base of Woolworth Building, now a hundred and four years old. Last winter, the proprietors, David Tobias and Eric Adolfsen, opened a companion bar next door called the Wooly Public. A bar for the people was refreshing news in inequitable times, particularly after the upper half of the great building, a neo-Gothic landmark built by the founder of the five-and-dime chain, was recently turned into luxury condominiums. While the condo owners may be unlikely to mingle with the masses downstairs over burgers, ’nduja, and devilled eggs, perhaps—if, say, they’re Russian oil tycoons keen to take secret meetings with American kleptocrats—they’ll appreciate the establishment’s shadowy corners and deafening acoustics. The aesthetic is an epochal medley lacking harmony—purple neon, vintage radios, fake flowers, a pay phone. Maybe the designers were nodding to the building’s variety-store history. The craft cocktails, including “Old Souls” (classics with modern twists) and “New Editions,” are tasty and tiki-forward. One rainy Friday night, two friends tried drinks with embarrassing names: Fountain of Youth, Gem Heist at the Plaza. A woman with a glittery backpack ordered a Woolynesia, tropical punch with gin, lime, chili, cinnamon, and puréed stone fruits, served in a woolly-mammoth-shaped mug. Paintings, prints, and statuary of the extinct beast, a lugubrious mascot, lurk everywhere you look. The woman took a sip, smiled at her man-bunned companion, and said, as far as an amateur lip-reader could tell, either “I love you” or “Elephant juice.” ♦